


Downpour

by BloomToPerish



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: British English, Forbidden Love, I like cushions, Kissing, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Making Out, Overly Descriptive, Pathetic fallacy, Rivalry, Secret Relationship, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26568013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloomToPerish/pseuds/BloomToPerish
Summary: These midnight trysts were doomed from the start. One shot.
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Kudos: 47





	Downpour

Through careless gaps in the ceiling, rain pours lazily, illuminated only by the fleeting spectacular flashes of lightning. Saturated cushions lay forlornly, gazing resentfully towards their un-protective ceiling, sodden prisoners casting sinister, spidery shadows upon the stark walls with every forbidding flash. Usually, they'd be swiftly thrown through a door-less frame in a frantic attempt to protect them from nature's mercilessness but their protector is too preoccupied on this day, too lost, or delirious with-

A monstrous peal of thunder rips through the city.

Malik attributes the harsh drop in temperature to the abhorrent weather conditions, and his imperviousness to it to the rough, warm, calloused hands exploring his chest- the jolts of electricity jump not only between the ground and the sky, but between them, two bodies so alone and lacking in comfort.

"Altaïr," he mutters against an exposed neck, aware, too acutely, of the vulnerable position Altaïr is placing himself in; this is an unspoken message of blinded trust that causes Malik to arch his back and pull Altaïr's lips to his. Dimly, in the back of his mind he realises he should be surprised at this newly discovered source of passion. But soon, thoughts melt from form and become nothing but flashes of desire or instinct. And all he is aware of is Altaïr- the heat pressing so resolutely against him; the taste of their tongues interlocking; the scent, latching onto and unlocking memories long buried and forgotten- the scent, he knows, is strong, musty, and it is still there, imprinted vividly into his mind, and it has lingered, he knows, because through the fresh coating of rain, it is still Altaïr, and he would never forget the scent.

They're sliding down the bookshelf now, oblivious to the glass-spun objects smashing at their feet- one thousand shards glitter. Altaïr's crouching above him, hands clutching desperately at the front of Malik's robes, as Malik fumbles with the crimson sash, releasing the intricate mechanism of armour and weapons, and he struggles to pull it from between them. Altaïr snatches it frantically. Careless, he tosses it to the ground.

Pause. And the breath they hopelessly just attempted to regain is pilfered harshly from their throats. The searing flash of lightning burns the image of one another's face in their minds, eyes clouded with mutual desire, glistening with shared lust

Malik can't tell who reacts more quickly. He attempts to push Altaïr away, only for his hand to meet thin air, as Altaïr pounces away from him.

Deafening, the subsequent hiss of pain indicates that Altaïr has landed on the remnants of the broken objects.

"Idiot." Malik intones, glancing at the shadowed ceiling. He reaches blindly for the hand Altaïr is cradling to his chest, and connects with a wrist for the merest of seconds; it feels as though he has touched a ghost.

"I'm fine." Altaïr hisses, glowering intensely into the opposite corner of the room, eyes deliberately averted from Malik.

"Clearly." Malik states, watching Altaïr attempt to stem the bleeding and pick out the shard of glass himself. The acid tone startles Altaïr for a moment- he is accustomed to the sound of the rain and the false sense of silence it creates.

The stubbornness is only momentary, and the reluctance that emanates from Altaïr as he proffers his injured hand causes Malik to roll his eyes. Mailk can imagine Altaïr's frustrated expression as he pulls the shard from his palm; he can feel the shift in the air when he flinches away from him.

"Thank you."

It takes few minutes, and the indignant sighs as Malik starts to rise, but it comes. The quiet admittance of gratitude quells Malik's annoyance, and he sinks comfortably back down.

"Don't you think people will notice?" Malik asks, tilting his head in Altaïr's direction.

"The cut isn't too deep." He mutters.

"No, you fool; I mean these far too frequent visits to Jerusalem."

Altaïr stiffens, as is the usual reaction when this arrangement between is acknowledged in conversation.

"If you're asking if people suspect, then, yes," he almost spits, "but half of those people were around ten years ago, Malik. It's nothing new to them."

"I know," Malik sighs, closing his eyes, "why do we have to remain so secretive?"

He knows the answer to all these questions though. In secret, this is meaningless- it doesn't threaten- there is no proof of it and therefore no misguided rebellions against it. This arrangement of sin supposedly is going to send them straight to hell. As though all the men that have lost their lives due to their hands didn't already guarantee that. Failed attempts at intimacy always stirs bitterness between them.

"Come back to Masyaf with me."

The request stuns him. It translates to "I miss you." Malik is unsure how to reply, so honesty pours from his mouth unbidden.

"I miss you too." He murmurs, relieved that Altaïr is relaxing back into the calmness, "I miss that you would only ever set foot in the library to torment me or to force me to help you study."

The reminiscence is intended to deflect Altaïr's request; Malik knows he couldn't go back and so does Altaïr. Masyaf stopped being a home to him when he lost Kadar. Now Altaïr oversees life there; he has Maria- these trysts would remain as secret and infrequent as before. Yet there would be no excuse for it. At least here, so many miles away, they can blame it on the journey. Malik wonders if Altair only wants him there for the thrill of having to hide something where the risk of exposure is greatest. Malik hasn't met with exhibitionist Altaïr for a while and the playful Altaïr died five years ago. Masyaf symbolises his former youth and inexperience- he misses light-hearted teasing, the feeling that they had all the time in the world- but now Masyaf seemed a reminder of exactly what he will never have.

"I miss that, too," Altaïr states, sleep lacing his voice.

Malik allows an unseen and softly dejected smile to form, "You will tell Maria that I send my regards?"

Altaïr murmurs consent, and Malik allows himself to sleep in the silence that follows the abrupt stop to the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic from my FF.net. Yay. This is pretty short and aimless and may contain mistakes.


End file.
